July 4th
by Sincerely Ash
Summary: On July 4th, 2006, Arthur fell in love with Alfred F. Jones. On July 4th, 2007, they kissed for the very first time. On July 4th, 2008, they were married. And on July 4th, 2009, the very worst thing happened. Will Arthur survive another July 4th?
1. Preface

**Edit: **Someone requested I place warnings and such for pairings in the summary, but it wouldn't fit, so I'm updating this chapter with them. I'll add if need be.

Warnings: Yaoi, implied sexy times, USUKUS, FrancisXGilbert, past CanUK and temporary one-sided CanUK, later Franada, Spamano, transgender and very OOC Sealand that doesn't even vaguely resemble Sealand.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I know I promised a oneshot a few days ago, but I came up with this and couldn't resist. Warning: This story may make you cry. Read at your own risk.

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

-Preface-

It was a sunny day.

Arthur wondered just how the **hell** it could be so sunny. There was nothing happy about today.

He heaved himself out of bed, his eyes tearing up with memories of where he was and what day it was.

July 4th.

He trudged to the closet, throwing on whatever he found. He combed his hair, but just barely. Did it really matter anyway? His jade eyes flickered to the bomber jacket tangled in the sheets. He sheets. He had worn it every day for the past two years. Did he really need it? Would it change the situation at all?

Arthur sighed, tears still welled in the corners of his eyes. He picked up the jacket and pulled it on, feeling once again like those strong arms were around him. But our poor Arthur knew that those arms would never wrap around him again. All hope was gone. He hiccupped, still not allowing himself to cry. He couldn't cry. He couldn't cry. There was still a chance.

There was no chance.

Arthur looked at himself in the mirror. He wore a perpetual frown, and his eyes were truly helpless. Those weary eyes were nestled into dark indigo bags, puffy and ringed with red. His hair was disheveled; his shoulders slumped; he completely lacked any confidence.

There had to be **something** he could do, **something** he hadn't tried.

But he knew there was nothing anymore. The only thing that could save him was about to be taken from him forever.

And he was going to let it happen.


	2. Chapter 1: Beginning of a Tale

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Erm…derp. Nothing to put here. Ooh! I'll be putting up a July 4th poll soon!

**DISCLAIMER:** Me no speak Japanese.

-1-

Do you like stories?

I like stories.

They're my specialty, you might say.

I have one particular story, but it's not exactly a happy story the entire time. But it **is** a story you'll love. That I can guarantee.

It all began with a crash. A crash? Yes, a crash. Of course. A box of flour bags crashing to the ground, along with a handsome, sometimes foul-mouthed, Brit.

"Bloody hell!" He exclaimed. He was now sprawled quite awkwardly across the floor, flour all over him, fuming.

It was at this exact moment that our "hero" walked in. He was wearing his newest suit and his favourite bomber jacket, a confident and goofy smile pasted on his face. Upon sight of the Brit, he blinked, turned around, and left.

This small event is something the cliché call love at first sight. It's something our hero calls "getting screwed." Because let's be honest, when you fall in love, you're basically screwed to all Hell.

So who are these two men? I'm glad you asked.

The angry British coffee shop owner on the floor is Arthur Kirkland. The idiotic lovestruck American is Alfred, Alfred F. Jones.

Let's fast forward now.

Three days later, Friday, Alfred returned. He had finally gained the courage to talk to the man. After all, he was the **Alfred F. Jones**. If you didn't find him charming, you were insane. He strode up to the counter, ringing the bell.

Luck must've been on his side that day, for what do you know, Arthur emerged from the kitchen in the back, wiping his hands off with a towel.

"Thank God, a customer," Arthur sighed with relief. "We've been so slow today, I sent everybody home."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You do realize it's the Fourth of July, right? Many people are at home, celebrating."

Arthur glared. "Of course I know that, git! I simply don't celebrate!"

Alfred was shocked. A life without the 4th? That must've been awful! On the 4th there were barbeques and fireworks, games and parties! "Well I guess you've just never seen the way a New Yorker celebrates."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I think I've seen plenty enough. What would you like?"

"Just a cappuccino."

Arthur nodded, filling a cup. "Here."

Alfred sipped it, grinning. "It's good. How much?"

"It's…how do you say it?" Arthur smiled. "On the house."

"You sure."

"Just take the bloody drink before I charge you double."

The American laughed. "Alrighty, alrighty, don't get your knickers in a twist."

Arthur glared at the comment.

"I'm Al. Alfred F. Jones."

Arthur's anger melted and his face became dusted with a light warmth. "A-Arthur. Kirkland."

It was on this day, July 4th, 2006, that Arthur fell in love with Alfred F. Jones.

On July 4th, 2007, Arthur and Alfred kissed for the very first time.

On July 4th, 2008, they married.

And it was on July, 4th, 2009 that a car crash ended Arthur's deliriously happy life.

This is the story of the events leading up to July 4th, 2011.


	3. Chapter 2: July 4th, 2009

-2-

Arthur ran down the white halls, people blending into jumbled masses of colour as hot tears ran down his face.

"Alfred! Alfred no! He has to be alright! Please!"

Now, now, dear Arthur. There's no need to **run**. Alfred's not going anywhere, at least not for a long time.

Our beloved Briton rushed up to the nearest nurse, almost giving in to the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, demanding what the hell had happened to his hero, his precious Alfred. But, being a gentleman, he resisted that temptation, settling for smiling politely and brokenly and clearing his throat. "Excuse me, but where can I find the room of Alfred F. Kirkland-Jones?"

She flipped through some papers attached to her clipboard, her brow furrowing in thought. "Hmm…room 273, right down that left hallway."

Arthur nodded, resuming his sprinting.

Now what did I say about all this silly running? Honestly, trying to stop the inevitable is useless.

_273….273…._ Arthur kept repeating it in his mind, a little mantra, if you will. He stopped before the room finally, flinging the door open. He could've sworn he'd heard glass shatter in the background.

"A-Alfred…"

Our hero had fallen into a deep, long sleep. His pale frame was slumped into the hospital bed. His ash blond hair was matted against his forehead, minus Nantucket of course. Bandages were wrapped tightly around the top of his skull, and his arm was in a sling. All sorts of wires and machines were connected to him. His crystal eyes had nestled themselves into sickly blue bags, red framing the edges.

Arthur will come very close to never seeing those eyes again. **Close**.

The Brit fell into a solemn silence, walking himself over to his husband slowly. He saw the old glasses of his lover on the table, crumpled and cracked ever so slightly. He saw Alfred's bomber jacket hanging on the edge of the bed. He picked it up, inhaling the strong scent. Tears pricked his eyes as he did so.

"Oh Alfred….I'm so sorry…"

At this moment, the door flung open again. This time, in walked a tall doctor. His golden hair was pulled back into a pony, and there was a specific swagger to the way he walked…something that was so…

Yup. This doctor was **French**.

"Bonjour, I assume you are Monsieur Kirkland-Jones' husband? Arthur…was it?" the doctor read from his clipboard as he spoke, not really interested in starting a conversation with the depressed Brit. "I'm Dr. Bonnefoy, I'll be taking care of Alfred during his stay here."

Arthur nodded robotically. "O-of course…and how long will he…?"

"There is no predicting how long the coma will last."

Yes, allow me to insert the perfect cliché into this story. Alfred, dearest Alfred, has left behind our Arthur after getting in a car crash and falling into a coma. Isn't that lovely? It's cliché, I'll say. But then again, every story needs the perfect balance of clichés, sarcasm, and pure angst. Oh, and romance, but that's obvious. Allow me to introduce the angst at this moment.

Arthur almost dropped the jacket in his hands. His knees weakened and his heart clenched. "C-c-c-coma?" he stuttered out.

Dr. Bonnefoy nodded. "Oui, oui, the young Monsieur got into quite an accident, you know."

"I know!" Arthur spat. But as soon as the burst of energy came, it disintegrated. "I know…" He sat down beside the bed, taking his husband's hand. "Oh Alfred…I'm so sorry that this happened to you…"

Arthur felt very much like he had been stabbed in the chest. He felt like someone had pulled the floor out from under him. He felt very alone; more alone than ever before. And more importantly, what if Alfred never woke up? What if this was the end? Oh, he wished he had kissed Alfred for at least one second more before letting him leave for work this morning. He wished he had took a moment to tell him just how much he loved him with every fiber of his being. He wished he had delayed Alfred's departure, so maybe he wouldn't have been there at the time when that mack truck slid across the street.

What a shitty anniversary. Didn't Alfred always say that July 4th was supposed to be a happy day?

Arthur broke into tears, quakes wracking through his body with every wretched sob. He dropped his head down on Alfred's chest, squeezing the man's hand in his own. "Oh Alfred! Please come back! Please don't leave me alone! I bloody love you, you git, you idiot! I'm sorry! I'll be a better person, I'll do anything! Just please come back to me!"

Dr. Bonnefoy took this as his chance to take his leave, and promptly exited the room. Arthur was left to cry alone and wallow in his sorrows, with no one more left to comfort him.


	4. Chapter 3: Backstories

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So my girlfriend's on vacation till Sunday, which means I have absolutely nothing to distract and pull me away for months at a time. I also have overcome my writer's block after writing this chapter like four times! Yay! This chapter, as you will notice, has a huge change in what I call "plot tone". The narrator is always sarcastic (and slightly cruel at times XD) but the plot is a lot lighter in this chapter. It'll get a little awkward towards the end, so that'll be fun. This chapter will also be uncharacteristically long for me. I like to rant, but when I break things up into chapters, it's normally by specific short events. Chapters with memories, like this one, will probably be longer. So yay. Here's Chapter 3.

-3-

Alright! Story time! So before we fast forward a week, you need a little background on Arthur's sex life. Ooh, pornographic. Fascinating.

Back when Arthur was in college, he "got around" a lot, if you know what I mean. He was drowned in depression after his parents had revealed to him in his senior year of high school that they had adopted him, and that his real parents (who had abandoned) were still living somewhere in England, far far away. So he liked to take it up the ass to try and forget about it! Isn't that lovely? Yeah…not so much. Poor Arthur.

But what does this have to do with anything? Well, I'll tell you.

One day, Arthur was sitting by himself in the library, flipping through a book. He didn't have any classes today, since it was a weekend, and he didn't have work either. So he decided to just sit and read Shakespeare in the quiet. Sure it was lonely, especially for Arthur, who had been feeling more down than lately, but he did ever so enjoy Shakespeare. Perhaps it would cheer him up a bit.

It was then, just barely, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned in his chair, looking up in confusion. Before him stood a fidgeting blond with long curly hair and purple eyes behind flimsy wire frames. The blond was holding a Business Communications textbook in his hand, biting on his lip nervously.

"Yes?" Arthur blinked.

"Um…you left this the other day…in class…" the boy's voice was barely a whisper, like the whistling wind. "I sit behind you…and I thought I would g-give it back…n-never expected to see you here…"

Oh? He sat behind him? Well no wonder he never noticed. The boy was a mouse.

"I see. Thank you." He smiled politely, always taught to be a gentleman. He took the book, slipping it into his messenger bag. "What was your name again?"

The boy frowned, almost looking a little hurt, but then he smiled sheepishly again. "M-matthew."

Arthur smiled. "Well thank you very much, Matthew." He turned back to his reading.

"You're v-very welcome…" Matthew smiled a little more, his face holding a hint of blush, not that Arthur noticed. He was silent for a moment, but then spoke up. "M-may I sit with you…?"

Arthur froze. "What?"

"Y-you look lonely…"

Well yes, he was lonely. But that was not the point. The point is he's a bit of a random stranger (although apparently they **were** classmates) and he was asking to sit with him. Then again, Arthur indeed was lonely. And Matthew didn't seem too bad. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt."

Matthew nodded, quietly pulled the chair beside Arthur out, and sat down, watching him read. He never bothered Arthur or said anything, simply smiled and twiddled his thumbs, occasionally looking up to watch Arthur read.

It was quite simple, how they met. And that quite simple meeting slowly led to a quite simple friendship. Arthur actually liked his friendship with Matthew very much. Matthew was kind and accommodating. He was used to being ignored (something about being near invisible his whole life) so any little bit of attention he received from Arthur was accepted with open arms. Still, he didn't ever pester or complain. And he kept Arthur company.

"Arthur…!" Matthew almost exclaimed.

Arthur's head jolted up from where it had been rested on the table. It had been months since Matthew and he had finally scrounged enough money to move out of the dorms, albeit together. It wasn't too bad having a roommate though, especially when they woke you up when you were supposed to be studying for your exams. "H-huh?"

Matthew frowned. "You were asleep. Drooling on the table, might I add." They didn't have much furniture. Matthew had managed to purchase this and that from yard sales and Craigslist. The table was one of the nicer pieces, something that Arthur had chipped in for as well.

Arthur lifted his head tiredly, willing his aching head to calm. "Sorry…I had a…long night yesterday."

Matthew frowned more at this. He hated when Arthur out at night. Arthur had a terrible drinking habit (not that Matthew himself didn't have a habit of smoking pot) and he was also rumoured as the King of One Night Stands. He hated the thought that his friend would throw himself around like that. He deserved better. Not to be used and forgotten easily. Heaven knows if Arthur had been out drinking last night, having sex, or both. He bites his lip to scold his roommate, hoping Arthur won't get angry at him. "Arthur, you should go to bed…"

Arthur rolls his eyes, standing up and getting some beer from the fridge. "Nonsense. I'm perfectly fine. Peachy keen, thank you very much." He popped the lid off and chugged some of the beer. "You, my friend, look very tired yourself." He walked past Matthew to go sit at the table again, ruffling his hair as he passed. Matthew pouted. He hated being treated like a child.

"Arthur, you're going to catch pneumonia."

The Brit sat down and began to scribble notes on what he was reading. "Yes, dearest."

"Arthur!" Matthew whined.

He sighed and looked up. "If it'll appease you, I'll go to sleep as soon as I finish this page."

That did appease him, and Matthew burst into a smile. "Yes, yes, thank you! Of course!" He received a roll of the eyes again, but that didn't dampen his mood.

"You should go to bed too, Matthew."

Matthew nodded, all too willing. "Okay! Good night, Arthur!" He headed into his bedroom, leaving Arthur to himself.

Arthur sighed, halting his note taking for a brief moment. "Yes…good night."

* * *

Arthur had seemed a little off the past week or so. It had been two years since they had become friends and nearly a year since they moved in together. Matthew thought he knew him inside and out. But lately he's been staying out of the house more and generally avoiding him. He didn't quite understand it. Arthur's been quieter too, if possible. He's beginning to wonder if he's finally grown bored of him. Everyone does. It was inevitable.

These thoughts drove Matthew to curling up on the couch with his Bear (which he slept with to deal with nightmares) and sobbing hysterically. He had no idea why Arthur not liking him would upset him so. So many people had ignored him before. So many people had become his friend only to discover him to be just as boring on the inside as the outside. Why did the prospect of Arthur not wanting to be his friend drive him to such babyish actions?

Matthew sniffled, sitting up. Maybe if he smoked a little, he'd feel better. Arthur wouldn't care if he came home to the house smelling like weed, that is, if he came home.

Yes. That was a perfect idea.

Twenty minutes later, Arthur walked in, sloshed. Matthew felt himself hit the wall, and the rest was a blur.

Matthew tiredly opened his eyes. The smell of weed and rum was everywhere, and as far as he could tell, he was in his bed. His eyes widened.

Arthur was with him.

* * *

"Luv, I'm home…" Arthur smiled softly, wrapping his arms around Matthew's neck. Matthew was busy writing on the computer, merely nuzzling Arthur's cheek a little, never taking his eyes off his work. Arthur chuckled. "All you do is work. I'm beginning to wonder why you dropped out to be a writer."

Matthew lifted his hands from the keyboard, smiling. "Well, I have such a great inspiration…" He turned in his chair, wrapping his arms around Arthur's neck and kissing him gently.

Arthur breaks after a moment, panting slightly. "Happy anniversary."

Matthew smiles. Arthur remembered. Even if he isn't noticed much by others, Arthur still cares enough to remember their year anniversary.

The Brit pulls out a box donned with a bow. Inside is custom cell phone charm, gold, shaped like Matthew's bear. He smiles softly.

"I love it."

* * *

When Matthew proposes three weeks later, Arthur rejects him.

To this day, neither of them know why.

* * *

Matthew sighs, hesitating at the door. Just the outside of the house is already showing neglect, and it's only been a week. The flowers outside are a little dry, some beginning to brown and wilt. The curtains are drawn closed, and there's a pile of mail three days old. Matthew feels the dread continue to well up inside him as he thinks of what it could look like inside. He rings the bell.

The door opens, revealing Arthur. He's still in his pajamas, wearing Alfred's bomber jacket too, and his hair is rumpled horridly. His eyes are puffy and pink as if he has been crying for days on end. Matter of fact, he probably has. Alfred nearly died. Alfred still could die.

Oh Arthur~ Wasting your tears on the inevitable. What did I say about all this silly foolishness of yours?

Matthew really didn't know too much about his brother. He only learned about him a few months ago (and discovered that Arthur was **married** to him, of all things). He had learned that his mother had abandoned Matthew because she couldn't take care of both babies, and at the time, Matthew was underweight and had weak lungs. It wasn't thought that he would survive. He had a lot of spite towards his mother for this, but he didn't really know what to think of his brother, the one that was now with Arthur after all these years.

"M-matthew…" Arthur whimpered, looking like he was about to die. He couldn't forget those nights with Matthew, under him, writhing and moaning with pleasure, or even just the nights spent cuddling, watching Romeo and Juliet or 500 Days of Summer. He could try to ignore it, but he couldn't forget. And Matthew certainly hadn't.

"I heard about Alfred." Matthew said, trying to smile in a comforting way, but most likely failing. "May I come in?"

Arthur paled, but politely nodded. _No, quite honestly, I don't want you here. I have no idea what you honestly think you're doing._ He stepped aside, letting Matthew in and shutting the door behind him. "Would you like anything to drink? I have some tea heated up."

Matthew nodded. "Tea's fine." He sat at the kitchen table, watching Arthur fill up his cup. His hands were shaking as he did so, and his breathing was shallow. Occasionally he'd hiccup or tear up a little, mumbling Alfred's name or something along the lines of "he'll be fine, my hero will be fine" to himself. Matthew bit his lip. What a sad state the Brit was in.

Arthur finally gave Matthew his tea and sat down across from him, sipping his own. "How's…"

He struggled for something to say. "…life?"

Matthew looked into his reflection in his teacup. "Alright I suppose."

Arthur frowned. That didn't give him much to work with. "…are you still writing?"

Matthew sighed, nodding a bit. Truth was he had burned his manuscript as soon as Arthur left him. The inspiration behind the whole book; if he had kept it, would've forced him to tears whenever he read or thought of it. He was still writing yes, but he was mostly a journalist for an online newspaper now. "I…I'm waiting for the right idea…"

"Oh." Arthur swallowed hard. "I see." He frowned. "Are you…with anyone?"

Matthew shook his head. "No, I…I'm not really much the dating around type. I'll find someone eventually…" More like maybe if he was anyone else in the world.

Arthur sighed. It was now his turn to look down at his tea and wish he could melt into the chair. Matthew bit his lip and attempted to contribute to their awkward conversation. Matthew hadn't talked to him in years though. He had only heard things from loose connections. What was there to talk about?

"Y-you're…married now…" Matthew fidgets.

The Brit's eyes soften. He knows Matthew must be hurt, confused. He's still confused about it all too. But clearly it had to be done. He was meant to be with Alfred, even if Alfred's doomed to die now. He swallowed the lump in his throat again. No, Alfred would live. He wouldn't allow himself to think otherwise. "Yes…I am…I started my business too. I love my Café very much…"

Matthew nodded. "That's nice…"

Matthew has forgotten why he came in the first place.


	5. Chapter 4: You'll Never Be Him

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Aaaand because of Hurricane Irene, she's back. Ironic. With my inspiration back, I'll attempt to continue with timely updates. Yay. Also, at the request of a reviewer, warnings are now at the beginning of the preface. And **yes**, this is, and will always be, a USUK fic, even though other pairings will crop up here and there.

-4-

Arthur groaned, burying his face in Alfred's pillow. The smell of TreSemme shampoo and burgers wafted from the plush object, though Arthur was congested and only faintly able to smell it. The pillow was damp with tears, as was the comforter that he had pulled all the way up to his chin, curled in his little pitiful ball of misery.

Now Arthur, are you going to cry for the next two years straight? Because that's going to get old really fast.

His aching joints whined in protest as he lifted himself onto his elbows, gazing around with dull eyes. The room was generally tidy, thanks to Matthew, who had generously offered to stay for a few days until Arthur was back on his feet. Arthur, feeling bad for the poor fellow, couldn't bring himself to decline.

He looked around with a sigh. The window was open a crack, letting the cool morning air in. The curtains flowed with each gust, the soft sunlight brightening the pastel yellow fabric. The analog clock on the side table blared nine AM in an unforgiving overly bright red. Alfred's reading glasses sat beside the demon clock, left behind when he had rushed off for work the day of the accident. They looked less shiny, and a little dust had already started to seat itself on the lenses. If they could talk, they'd probably whine about missing their owner. They'd probably ask where he was. Arthur reached out to touch the glasses sadly, but pulled his hand back with a sigh. No…he'd leave them there for Alfred. For when he got home, whenever that was. He wouldn't touch them until then.

Alfred's jacket was wrapped in his arms possessively, having been demoted to Arthur's security blanket/teddy bear. Since the day Alfred had entered the Hospital, Arthur had not let the jacket out of his sight. He wore it religiously.

The door creaked open slightly, Matthew visible in the small opening. "A-Arthur…" he mumbled, smiling weakly. "It's time to wake up."

The Brit frowned and buried his face back in the hamburger-scented pillow. Perhaps Matthew would let him be if he seemed asleep. The moment mirrored the mornings of Arthur's college days, the memories only further serving to make Arthur more depressed if possible.

Matthew sighed, walking up to the bed and sitting on the edge. It hurt him to see Arthur this defeated. Frowning, he couldn't help but think, _If it had been me that Arthur had chosen, this wouldn't have happened. I wouldn't have left him all alone._ He wondered if thinking that made him a bad person. Most likely, yes.

"Arthur…" he sighed, reaching over and carding his fingers through the Brit's hair.

Arthur tensed a little, but shut his eyes and tried to convince himself that it really was his hero that was stroking him so lovingly, that they were together, and that Alfred was so sorry, so sorry for leaving him even for a single minute.

But when he opened his eyes, the man who looked so much like his husband had no Nantucket. He had no childish grin. No jovial sparkling crystal blue eyes. The man before him may love him, and love him very much, but he was no Alfred. Arthur frowned and pulled away, sitting up. "I don't need your pity, Matthew." It came out colder than he had wanted it to. The hurt on Matthew's face proved as much. He almost wanted to take it back, to hug the poor, lonely, unwanted boy. But he couldn't give him any such hope. He loved Alfred, not Matthew.

Matthew looked away, willing himself to try and not look too wounded. "I'll…I'll go make you some waffles…"

Arthur wasn't hungry, that they both knew, but whether or not he wanted it, he'd be forced to shove at least a corner of the waffles down his throat and be expected to keep it down. One day Matthew had found Arthur attempting to purge after lunch, and he was not pleased. It resulted in more food shoved down Arthur's throat and the threat of sending him to a psychiatrist.

The Brit nodded. "T-that would be best…"

Matthew stood up, dejected, and went to leave, lingering for a moment in the doorway. "A-arthur…t-there…are…a lot of people…who care about you…I know you don't want to talk to your parents after they kept from you that you were adopted…and you don't have any friends from college, but…" He looked up, frowning. "I-**I **care about you…if that's worth anything at all."

"Of course it is, Matthew…" Arthur smiled weakly, lying. "We have so much history…you'll always be one of my greatest friends…"

Matthew frowned more, nodded once, and left.

Arthur sighed, slipping Alfred's jacket on. Time to go through the motions of another day.


	6. Chapter 5: Best Sleep In Weeks

Author's Note: I will now be noting what day it is, since I'm going to begin skipping around an unreasonable amount of times that will confuse even me. Hopefully that'll make things a little easier to understand as we switch from past to present to future! After this chapter, there will also be a lot less mopey angsty scenes, which I am glad about, with life picking up as usual (or at least as usual as it can be) now that Arthur is no longer hulled in his house.

Also… *blushes, embarrassed* I had this chapter written for like a month…I just never typed it DX

-5-

August 10th, 2009

Arthur sighed, wiping off the last table in the coffee shop. They were training a new busboy and to say the kid was a newbie was an understatement. He must've broken three plates in the first hour, but Arthur didn't have the heart to fire him.

"I can't believe Beilschmidt would recommend such a kid." Arthur sighed. But his cashier had never once stared him wrong. He glanced at the kid's file again. "Vargas. Feliciano Vargas. Sounds more like he belongs at a Don Giovanni's."

Arthur checked his watch. It was a little early, but he was sure Alfred wouldn't mind. He had missed him terribly, even though he had seen him before work. Perhaps he'd get him a little something on his way there. Some action figures? Comics? Maybe a movie. He adored the ones with spies or superheroes, or even war movies, really anything as long as they built up the view of American heroism that he held so dear.

Arthur hung up his apron, grabbing the keys and locking up the shop. A movie was a good idea. And some new flowers. The one he had currently were starting to wilt.

* * *

"Alfred~" Arthur smiled. "Honey, I'm back."

Silence, except for the monotonous beeping of the heart rate monitor.

"I got you some presents! I know you must be bored all day, so I got you Spiderman and Spiderman 2." He opened one of the boxes and put the DVD in the player attached to the television. "I'll put the first one in now, and I'll tell Romano to change it when it ends." Arthur had paid a heck of a lot of for a room with a DVD player and a view. Luckily for him, he had become good friends with two of Alfred's nurses, Elizabeta and Romano. Elizabeta absolutely adored everything about his and Alfred's relationship, and sometimes asked for stories, which Arthur would supply with a faint blush on occasion, never taking his eyes off his beloved husband. Romano was a moody little bitch who (go figure) was Arthur's new busboy's brother. He was constantly irritated and a complete potty mouth, but he **did** feel bad for Arthur. Those two would always go along with Arthur's odd requests no matter what, like rotating movies in the DVD player and watering the dozens and dozens of flower Arthur brought to brighten the room.

Arthur smiled softly, passing a pot of mums and going over to the vase of blue roses on Alfred's side table. He gently added the ones he'd just bought. With the movie on, and the flowers in the vase, he sat down beside Alfred and took his hand lovingly, stroking it with his thumb. "Work was so busy today. Our new busboy still needs some work, but I think I can whip him into shape."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Your glasses," he chuckled, "Your regular glasses, not the reading ones, silly, are still being worked on, but they'll have them ready in a few days." He smiled. "Soon you have nice, new, not cracked lenses."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I hate to be cruel, but isn't it just a little weird to talk to yourself, Arthur? Seriously. Now you've gone from silly to just plain ridiculous. I guess if you really just wanna hand us character development on a silver platter, I won't stop you.

Arthur's smile weakened. "Alfred…? Do you, um…mind?" He stood up, lifting up a corner of the covers in a questioning manner.

Beep. Beep.

He took that as a no, sliding under the covers beside his husband and wrapping his arms around him. "Oh Alfred…I love you so much…"

* * *

Romano groaned, checking his clipboard. That last patient had a little brat visiting them, who just so happened to think that the word "nurse" was a synonym for "jungle gym."

_I should've went into law, but noooo, Mama wanted a boy in medical school, and Feli certainly isn't cut out for anything that requires rational thought,_ he griped. Well, he might as well check on Alfred so he could take a quick break. At least **he** was quiet.

When he came into the room, he discovered Arthur-Alfred's husband-had curled up beside him in the bed and fallen asleep. If Elizabeta had seen it, she most likely would've squealed and taken pictures. But Romano merely sighed. "Damn saps."

He opened one of the cabinets in the room and pulled out a blanket. "You two are gonna run me ragged, and here you are, no remorse. God have mercy on my poor screwed soul." He covered them up, his frown softening. The Brit had dark sickly bags under his eyes, his hair rumpled and face pale. This was probably the best sleep he had gotten in weeks, cuddled up beside his barely-alive husband. He looked at the growing pile of DVDs and comic books, as well as the stuffed blob in the corner that Arthur called a "mochi."

_"Alfred's old friend from Japan told me to give it to him when he wakes up." Arthur said, not looking up from Alfred. Arthur, really that's horrid eye contact. Bad decorum. Shame shame._

_ The little blob had blue eyes, glasses, and a cheery smile, much like someone else in the room before the accident._

With another sigh, Romano checked Alfred's IV, marking down that he'd need more medication in an hour or so. He'd wake up Arthur at the end of visiting hours as well, giving him a stern lecture about bothering patients and policies and the like, most likely with quite a few explicit words. But until then…

"Sleep well, idiots."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left.


	7. Chapter 6: Peyton Sarah Kirkland

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Guyssss I know I promised this in 24 hours before, but I'm in the process of working on something super awesome, so I kinda sorta was slow to update! But I'm sorry, and it's here now, and I promise you the surprise will be super awesomeeeee!

-6-

August 19th, 2009

Today Arthur had off, which was nice. When he had woken up, he was feeling considerably good. You know, compared to how you should feel when your husband is on the brink of death, your ex-boyfriend is constantly checking up on you because you're on the 'brink of insanity', and your busboy is on the brink of making you lose the last set of plates in the whole café and Heaven knows what he's doing right now with only Beilschmidt watching him.

But Arthur can't feel good. Let's screw him up more, shall we?

It was at precisely 8:27 AM and 54 seconds that Arthur's doorbell rang. It was also that precise second that Hell on Earth became Hell on Earth: Level Two, which sounds like a pretty cool video game, or at least I think so. I think I'll go look for that on the Internet later.

Oh, where was I? Right. Torturing our piece of hunky man ass.

Arthur blinked in surprise, confused as to who would be at his door so early in the morning. He shrugged, crossed the room, and opened it.

Two baby blue eyes stared up at him sadly.

Arthur only had one thing to say.

"Who are you?"

* * *

Allow me to tell you another story. One of someone maybe even more fucked in the head than Arthur. Very stupid too. Oh yes. Very stupid.

This is the story of Peyton Sarah Kirkland.

Peyton was the Kirkland miracle. Mrs. Kirkland had always dreamed of having a baby of her own, but could never conceive. But then: a surprise. Mrs. Kirkland became pregnant with a baby girl. They couldn't be more overjoyed. And they were sure that their adopted son, Arthur, who was ten at the time, was happy too, even if he wouldn't come out of his room to say so. Sometimes Mrs. Kirkland would go into his room at three in the morning and find Arthur in his room reading Shakespeare, and she'd chuckle and scold him lightly.

"It's time for all little boys and girls to go to sleep, don't you think, luv?" She'd laugh, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Arthur would immediately flush and slide his book under his bed, pretending to be regretful. They both knew otherwise. "Sorry, Mum." He'd kiss her cheek and then let her tuck him in. Then she'd pet his hair and hum to him his favourite Beatles songs until his eyes would droop, rubbing her swollen stomach protectively.

One night Arthur asked her a question about it.

"Mum, do all babies come from Mummy's tummies?"

She nodded. "Of course Arthur."

Arthur yawned. "Even Arthurs?"

A sad look tainted her eyes for a moment, but she smiled even more. "Yes…even little Arthurs…you came for my tummy just like Peyton…"

Arthur nuzzled her hand, closing his eyes. "That's good…mean old Gilbert told me that Santa just dropped me down the chimney one day because you were naughty, and that I was the worst present ever." Then Gilbert took his juicebox. Which stunk because it was berry flavoured, which was the best kind.

Mrs. Kirkland rolled her eyes. "Gilbert's just jealous because you're far more amicable than he is.."

But she didn't receive a reply, because Arthur had fallen asleep.

Weeks and weeks flew by like jet planes, and soon enough the Kirklands had a blond haired, blue eyed little newcomer. Everyone in the entire extended family was ecstatic, so ecstatic that if Facebook had been around then, they would've probably put up a Peyton fanpage, the damn easily-amused fools. Peyton was a perfect little girl for the perfect Kirklands, and while in the future she faltered slightly in her grades here and there (whereas Arthur had almost straight 100's), she possessed the social skills that Arthur himself lacked-the ability to charm almost anyone into believing what she was saying. _Oh? You have a D in class? Oh, it's only a 69, and that class must be very, very difficult from what you're telling me, Peyton. Teachers these days, not doing their jobs. Keep up the hard work, you're such a good girl._

Peyton had lots of friends like Arthur, and she liked sports. When Peyton tried out for soccer, her parents celebrated her being appointed team captain with a trip to the movies. When Peyton struck ten homeruns in one softball game in the fourth grade, she received a new video game for her "athletic excellence". When Peyton scored spots on the track, hockey , and boys' football teams, it was anything but surprising. Everything she did she was superb in.

Peyton started up guitar at twelve, but soon found that she preferred the electric bass. She had both a band and played drums for the Orchestra at school.

Even so, when Arthur looked at her, he saw a flat character. He saw something that was lacking any depth. There was something missing inside of Peyton. When he was younger, he assumed that she was just a reject baby or something, but as he grew older, he noticed how she didn't seem very alive. She was merely playing the game, not feeling anything, just merely watching time pass boredly.

Much like Arthur did until he met Alfred.

* * *

"Arthur, it's Peter," the boy…I think that's a boy…said, looking almost even sadder.

'Peter' was a short teen, his voice clearly not fully changed yet. He wore a baggy hockey jersey, stonewashed jeans, black and white Vans, and a baseball cap. His hair was generally shaggy and slightly curly, and he had the back pulled into a tiny ponytail with a rubber band. His backpack was slung on one shoulder, full to the brim.

Arthur frowned. "I…I don't know who you are…I've never met a Peter before in my life."

Peter chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Yeah…Jun said you'd prolly say that."

Lol, Arthur, how awkward are you. That's no way to treat your new guest. Oh, whoops. I spoiled the surprise.

Arthur sighed. "Look, kid…Peter…whatever your name is. I really don't have time for-"

"You know, Mum really misses you. You almost near killed her when you left." Peter suddenly said. There was a dark look in his eyes. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to find you?"

And right then, with those manipulative words, everything hit Arthur like a mack truck. He turned pale, and ushered Peter in.

"Get inside, get inside **now**."


	8. Chapter 7: The Boy in Her Eyes

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So stuff continues to go on, and it's big and lololol, you don't care. WHERE'S TEH PORN. WE WANT IT. /fanrage

Oh yeah, I totes know what you're thinking.

Anywho, short update in my life, my ma's in Florida (YESSSSSSSSSSS), I'm a dude /is shot, Deutschfest is in a few weeks, and my new girlfriend is way less awful than the last 8D

Anyway, I wanted to get this in after I had talked to one of my real important friends who is like, my entire family to me, about the whole "dude" thing. After I talked to her, I felt really okay about it all, and I was like, hey this isn't the end of the world. And I feel a real connection to Peter. So yeah. If you can deal with tranny Sealand, you can deal with me, so don't hate _

This chapter was like, really hard to write. DX I wanted to try and express Peyton's defeatedness, something I know very well, but from Arthur's perspective. Which was a challenge, because at the same time Arthur's very uncompassionate about most of it. So hopefully it didn't come out like total crap.

Also, for all you people with no lives, stroll on over to my profile, (it's shiny and new and almost done!) and there's a poll for your favourite July 4th character! I'm totally interested in who your favourite character is. I'd prolly have to choose like, Matthew or Romano. Because saying Peter would be biased XD

**Chapter 7:**

The Boy in Her Eyes

August 19th, 2009 9:42 PM EST

Arthur sighed. The little blonde had begun to cling to him at exactly 7:21 and had continued till long after 9. The crying, good God, the damned **crying**. He had nearly slammed his head into the wall, had he been able to move. And now the demon child had him in the drip of death, fast asleep, as if he were some security blanket.

Arthur couldn't take crying. It wasn't his fault if he was perpetually numb towards "souls in need." Being a crutch for pityfreaks (especially pityfreaks **related** to him, of all things), was just not his forte. Alfred had always been more compassionate with others than him, always claiming to be the next Superman.

A dull ache came to his chest.

"Oh Alfred…" He couldn't deal with Peyton right now. He had his own problems, bills to pay, a job to do. In the morning he would demand Peyton return to Cortland immediately.

He would not take 'no' for an answer.

**JULY4TH**

August 20th, 2009

(The Next Day)

Now friend, Arthur is a very weak man at this time, as you can see. A beautiful, most likely burnt (well, he **is** British), wet noodle of uke.

…And Peyton had such big blue eyes. They reminded him of Alfred. In fact, if Arthur had been a woman and him and Alfred had had a child, Peyton would be that child. She certainly looked the part. Blond, prominent brows, pale skin, crystal eyes, and a white as paper shining smile. Dear Lord, she **certainly** looked the part.

And so, whether it was Peyton's voodoo magic manipulation skills or Arthur's longing for his Alfred, come the next morning, he found Peyton sitting across from him at the oak wood kitchen kitchen, a frown once again etched into his face.

It was almost discouraging to look at Peyton for longer than a moment, really. She was in a baggy shirt and Angry Birds pajama pants, a blanket clutched around her shoulders. Her hair was mussed up and in need of a good wash, but he couldn't bring himself to mention it. He could see just how **big** her chest had gotten, now that it was not wrapped up by the old ace bandage she had stolen from their parent's medicine cabinet. She was paler than usual, her eyes puffy and lifeless, trained to the floor. Her hands sat clenched in her lap, shoulders hunched with utter defeat as she proclaimed quietly, "I'm not hungry."

Again that dull ache, and he wished to claw at his chest in hopes of alleviating it. But this time, the ache was not for Alfred. It was for Peyton, and Peyton alone. She had really rolled over and died in the past few years, hadn't she? She was a zombie, a ghost. A ghost of his past. Exactly how he had been during college, before Matthew. How had those idiots not noticed?

"Love, you have to eat. You're getting so thin." He worried his lip, and then spoke again, trying to lighten the weight that had taken hold of the room. "You'll always be a pipsqueak if you don't eat. Don't you want to grow-"

"No!" She yelled, suddenly tense and almost looking pained. Her resistance of the inevitable swirled around the room and rang in his ears. "I don't wanna fucking grow! Not an inch more, or I'll go mad!" The poison in her eyes; the fruitless and tireless desire; the hopelessness, it was all there. How couldn't they have seen have seen it? How couldn't they have known?

Arthur frowned. "Peyton…"

"Don't freaking call me that, you jerk!" She cried, tears pricking her eyes. "You don't have any idea do you." The words were tossed at his feet bitterly. "You don't have a clue what's it like...to have that damned name thrown back in my face, over and over and over and **over and OVER**!" With the last word, she slammed her fist down on the table, the table setting clattering and shaking. "I hate it…I hate it so much…"

"Then would you prefer Peter?" It was said without missing a beat.

Peyton looked up, confused. "W-wha…?"

"It was a simple question. You called yourself Peter, several times, actually. Is that what you would prefer?" Arthur had no clue what was speaking for him.

Peyton stared at him in disbelief. "You don't…?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Oh hush, you. There is much more than that you could do to bloody offend me, now answer the question before I kick your delinquent bum out to the streets."

Peyton looked down at her plate, puffed out her cheeks and stabbed a scrambled egg viciously, shoving it into her mouth and mumbling muffled-ly, "If you must have something to call me, jerk, do as you like."

For the first time in months, Peyton ate her entire meal. Arthur watched her eat, letting his food grow cold in order to make sure every last piece was devoured. He did this even though he did not understand Peyton, and he could equally not understand why.

He certainly did not understand why Peyton would want to boy. He certainly did not understand why she would run away from home, even if she had, among other things, tried to explain several times last night. He did not understand very much at all, but there was a child he saw in his sister's eyes. A little blond boy, hulled up in his room, sobbing. Confused as to why this was happening to him. He couldn't see close enough to tell if the child was Peyton or himself, but it didn't matter.

He had to keep history from repeating itself.


	9. Chapter 8: Kiss of Death

**Author's Note: **I'm super excited that I'm finally signed up for Zenkaikon! This will be my first anime convention and time cosplaying and my personality fits America so much that I don't even have to act XD Plus an opportunity to see Uncle Yo! Yay Uncle Yo! **Next chapter:** Some flashbacks and Arthur beginning to teach Peter to be a British gentleman.

**Chapter 8:**

Kiss of Death

August 22nd, 2009

Arthur couldn't believe he was about to do this. Peter watched him, perched on the arm of the couch-goddammit when he had told that little shit that was alright- watching him intensely for the words that would seal his fate. He couldn't blame the child, honestly, but did the kid have to be **so** anal?

Arthur's moved on their own, ghosting the worn pages of the flowery phone book that he could never bring himself to burn all those years ago. It had taken him quite the time to find it, hidden in a box of dusty photos and crude sketches and profiles of faeries in the basement. When he finally found it, Peter discovered him sloshed and sobbing on the floor, an empty bottle of cognac beside him. With a sad smile, he hoisted his brother up the stairs as best he could and put him to bed.

Which brought him to now, standing in his parlour nursing the remains of a hangover searching an allergy-infested, heart-wrenching book for the number of people who most certainly curse him out and hang up on him, then demand their son-daughter-thing back.

Arthur looked over at Peter with a frown. He in return, smiled back at him, already looking improved since he had arrived.

Arthur's grip on the book strengthened, as did his resolve. He could not let them have Peter. Peter had to stay here, where he was understood, and safe, and wanted. He dialed quickly, before he had the time to think any more.

Brrrringgggg.

This was a bad idea.

Brrrringgggg.

How stupid could he be?

Brrrringgggg.

They weren't home! Maybe it was a sign that he should just hang up and-

_ "Hewwo?"_

Oh sweet bloody damn.

"Er yes hello, my name is Arthur Kirkland-Jo-j-" He cut himself off, realizing his mistake. "Ah yes, Arthur Kirkland. I was just wondering if a Ms. Alice Kirkland was available? If not, Mr. Kirkland would do just fine."

_"Oh! Owkay!"_ There was silence, and the sound of a smoke detector nearing.

"What in God's name…?

_"Elise? Elise darling, what is it, Mommy's cooking."_

**Oh**. Well that explained quite a bit.

_"Some creepy man named Arfur wants to talk to you!"_

Haha! Pwned by a kid! That's funny as Hell. I mean I hate kids but it's funny when they're insulting him and not **me**.

"Hey, you little git! I take offense to that!"

_"Arthur…?"_ A shatter in the background. _"Here! Give Mommy the phone! Arthur? Arthur! Is it really you?"_

He was shaken by the desperate sound to her voice. It had never occurred to him that his lack of presence would ever cause any distress. If anything, he had only be worried about the future stress it would alleviate for them. Perhaps there had been a slight miscalculation. "M-ms…M-mum…y-yes…it's me."

That admittance was the admittance that everything in Arthur's past had indeed occurred , and it was as if a dam had just burst open. And what a fitting simile, for everything that dam had held from sight would surely drown the damned one who had made it that way. Get it? **Dam**ned? That was punny!

_"Oh Arthur!" _She began to sob. _"Where have you been! We have missed you so much! So much has happened while you were gone!"_

"Please, mum…now is not the time…"

_"But how could you just up and __**leave**__? We loved you so much and we had never shown you anything but love!"_

"I know…mum, I know."

No one **had **ever shown him **anything** but love, yet all he did was smash and break the hearts of others. He was truly a disgrace.

"This isn't about me though, mum." He was moreof reminding himself when he said that. "This is about Pete- er, Peyton."

_"What? What about Peyton? Do you know where she is?"_

"She ended up on my doorstep a few days ago. Heaven knows how she found the bloody place."

_"Oh, God! This is such great news! Let me get a pen and some paper-I'll come pick her up right away!"_

Arthur's chest clenched. "**No**!" He shouted, far too forcefully, for Peter froze where he sat.

_"…What?"_ Her voice was so small now, the crack snapping with the most pitiful vengeance. _"What do you mean? Arthur you can't just __**keep**__ my daughter from me!"_

"No, I'm not, I'm not," He sighed. "That's not what I meant…"

_"Explain to me, because I'm having a hard time understanding how this isn't __**kidnapping**__!"_

Arthur sighed again, pressing a hand to his throbbing temple. "I'm just….I'm going through a lot right now…I really don't feel comfortable re-integrating into the family yet…mum, I know you must hate me for just disappearing off the face of the map, but I was young, I made mistakes. **Please**, I beg of you, give me a few weeks with Peyton. I'm appalled as to why she would do this. I do believe I can make a difference. If you come and get her now, she will simply run away again-" of that he was most definitely sure "-and this time you may not be lucky enough for her to end up with a family member. I f you allow me just a bit of time, I will give you my address as soon as I am sure she will not run again."

A pregnant silence, and then, _"I will give you 2 weeks; fourteen days, Arthur, if you give me your address and promise to have a talk with me, a __**real**__ talk."_

Arthur looked over at Peter, who had gotten bored and begun to play Halo on Alfred's Xbox. "…Alright then. We can talk then, or at least try. I, I can't promise I'll be entirely alright to talk about just everything just yet, that past month has been Hell…but it has been quite a long time since I have seen you, Mum."

_"I understand. Thank you for calling, Arthur. Do you mind if I…talk to Peyton?"_

"O-of course not," he betrayed himself, every muscle screaming no. "Peyton, love…?"

Peter looked up, visibly shrinking. Arthur weakly held the phone out.

"She wants to talk to you."

Arthur had never heard a simple statement sound so much like a death sentence.

Peter nodded, and took the phone. He looked small and childish again, so fragile. For as soon as he took the phone, he was a girl again, so long as her voice echoed in his ears, taunting him innocently. Nothing had changed. He would always be the same. He would always be the thing that disgusted him so.

When Peter was quite finished, Arthur took the phone and told his mother his address, marking the date she would could to pick Peter up on his _Cricket Monthly_ calendar.

_"I love you Arthur. I hope you know that."  
_

He did, he most certainly did. But sometimes seeing what fear and insecurity had done to him, and now Peter, made her seem like she could be nothing but the most evil of evils. Arthur, though, never able to eloquently and effectively speak his mind, as you very well know, could only mumble a sad, "I know."

He bid her farewell and hung up, settling on the couch beside Peter with a cautious frown. "Peter…"

Peter flinched, curling in on himself and whimpering.

"Oh love…oh please don't cry…everything will be alright…" Arthur bit his lip and wrapped his arms around him, tightly, kissing his hair softly. "Love, this age is a hard time to be in your position…everything seems like the end of the world. But everything will be alright, poppet…I'm here…I will love you no matter what…"

_ "I will always love you no matter what…"_


	10. Chap 9: In Contrast with this Nightmare

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: ** I have a tumblr now! Yes, I've been using tumblr for quite some time to get my doujin and ask blog fixes but I finally decided to actually make one and I am quite addicted. If anyone is interested in it, it's a much faster way to bug me if you want updates (seeing as I rarely ever check my PM box here and find stuff months after the fact -/-). So if you wanna stop by, see if there's anything you haven't seen before, drop me a note or something, my tumblr is under the name southeastapple. You can also drop me an ask at any time to see if I've got anything in my private stash of porn fanfics/fanart/doujin that fits your needs. I'm planning on keeping most of my fanfiction updates/journal entries there and maybe even post some future previews. (:O)

Also, a fanfic I've recently got into is the **blindchild!AU** fanfic by fishwrites and abhauen. I don't know if you've seen it before, but it's pretty fucking fantastic and I'll post that on my tumblr too later today. You can find it through abhauen's tumblr or go to _A Photograph of the Artist as a Young Man_ on FFN. There's also an artverse that goes along with it and it's really, really awesome. Seriously, I've been living and breathing it the past two weeks. So if you get the chance, if you like models, blind Arthurs, USUK, and sassy Francises, go check it out, favourite it, send it to everyone you know, have its children, I don't know, I'm not gonna judge, BUT SERIOUSLY guys, it's the cats meow and you've all gotta read it because I need friends to ramble about the shit that goes down in it.

And a final note, a warning for this chapter, there is lots of _implied sexy times._

Now that I'm done rambling, on with the show~!

Notes: (1) You said you hate me. (Huzzah being in German TuT I can make Gil say things.)

(2) Jun Wang- My name for Hong Kong, China's son.

**Chapter 9: In Contrast with this Nightmare**

December 18th, 2007

**10:28:53 AM EST**

**The Kirkland Apartment**

**Manhattan, New York**

Arthur awoke to soft lips on his skin.

_Soft._ Everything was soft. From the morning light, to the lips on his skin, the to calloused hands on his back. Even the air that filled his lungs felt lighter.

The hands, not sensing his awakening yet, continued to trail up his back lovingly, stopping right around the middle of his shoulder blades and then turning south once again. He could hear the gentle thrum of life as his love breathed, the velvety sound as his lungs inflated. Arthur could feel the vibrations of his love's diaphragm as he hummed an old Beatles song quietly.

He lifted his head, just slightly (for he was just **so** comfortable), to look into those handsome sky blue pools. They were so pure, so completely and totally belonging to him that it made his heart squeeze with glee. Sifting his hand through his beautiful boy's hair, he mumbled softly, "Hi…"

Alfred's eyes sparkled at the sound, and he wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist more snugly, as if they could possibly be any closer. "Good morning…" He whispered back.

Arthur reached up, tangling his fingers in Alfred's wheatgrass hair. "Did you sleep well, poppet?"

Alfred leaned into the touch, a content pink dusting his freckly cheeks, and he nodded. "But of course I did…" He cast his eyes to the side, blushing more. "You were really awesome…"

Arthur chuckled. The boy really was too cute. "As were you." And then he tutted with another chuckle. "'Awesome,' that is."

The American bit his lip in embarrassment. "No I wasn't…I even cried…"

Another tug on those heartstrings. Boy, Arthur was going soft. "No, no, poppet…you've got it all wrong. It was only a little, and I did, too, my first time." He pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Besides, once we got past that bit, I happened to enjoy myself immensely."

That cute little blush returned, and Alfred puffed his cheeks out. "You kinky bastard…"

Arthur laughed. "Insufferable git."

"Tight-ass grammar Nazi."

"Low class cholesterol junkie."

Alfred's lips were so close now, close enough that Arthur could feel each syllable caress his own. "I hate you."

"I hate you more."

Their lips collided, loving, yet needy and hungry at the same time. Oh, Alfred was **so** asking for it, not even knowing how irresistible he was. And Arthur would've given it to him right then, had he not known how exhausted Alfred must've been. So instead he broke away to press a few soft kisses along the edge of Alfred's jaw.

"Mm…I love you…" Alfred sighed happily. Arthur smiled.

"As do I…" He pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Wwhy don't we get dressed and have some breakfast? You must be hungry, always stuffing yoru face like you do."

"Well, I **am** quite hungry…" But then he mumbled under his breath, "But I'd rather not get up…" It was barely coherent.

Arthur blinked. "What was that, sweetheart?"

Alfred rolled over, pushing Arthur off of him unintentionally, and buried his faced in the pillows. "Nevermind. You'll just laugh at me."

"Laugh?" Arthur frowned. "Dearest, why do you think I would laugh at you? Come on now, out with it."

"Mffr bhhtrrf hrrts…"

"Huh?"

Alfred looked up with a weak glare. "My bottom hurts. My hips and ass are so sore that it hurts even to shift around."

"Oh…" That was all? Arthur chuckled. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about, love. Over time it will get easier. You can take some Advil and we can just have a lazy day, today, if you'd like. I'll make some pancakes and we can watch a movie~"

Alfred paled, for everyone (at least everyone with working taste buds, for Arthur surely had none) knew that Arthur Kirkland's cooking was notoriously **poisonous**. Emphasis on the bloody fucking **poison**.

"Er…perhaps some doughnuts! After all, 'America runs on Dunkin!'" Alfred tried to sit up in protest, but ended up moving too fast, yelping in pain as his sore-

**SLAM.**

Well now he had yet another ache. "Owowowowowowow**ow**! Arthur, you and your big head!"

"Me and my big head? What about you and yours? You're the one who headbutted me!"

"It was an accident!"

"A bloody **accident**!"

"Yeah!"

Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples. "I suppose I am being a right prick about this all, aren't I? I apologize, pumpkin, I haven't had my morning tea yet."

"S'okay hun." Alfred was smiling so purely again, his anger completely gone with just that simple apology. "Soooo…" Alfred kissed Arthur softly, tracing circles on the Brit's bare chest. "Coffee Roll, Large Hazelnut Coffee, and two Chocolate Chip Muffins~? Please~?"

"Mmm…but I had so wanted to make you breakfast in bed…ngh…Alfred, don't nip there…alright, alright." Arthur pushed Alfred away before he could defile him again. "I'll get you your bloody Dunkin Donuts."

"Huzzah!" Alfred cheered. "The Hero wins again!"

Arthur rolled his eyes, standing up and throwing a pair of Captain America boxers at his childish lover. "Find a movie On Demand and I'll be back in fifteen minutes or so." He pulled on his own boxers and pants, then set off to find a shirt that would cover the dark marks Alfred had left on him the night before. "Can you handle such an important task, Mr. Clark Kent?"

"You can count on me!"

* * *

The Present

Remember that French doctor?

Come on.

Think back.

Harder.

_Yeah._ There you go.

You 'member.

You see, Dr. Bonnefoy, ahem, I mean Francis, since he's off work, was very, very, **very** bored will his dull life. He didn't like being a doctor very much, in all honesty. He didn't know if it was the white, monotonous walls, or the never wavering smell of sanitizer and chemicals, or the depressing _beep_ing of heart rate monitors and machines day after day. To him, being a doctor meant watching people die, being able to save some and not others, watching people like Mr. Arthur Kirkland-Jones drag their sorry asses into the Hospital day after day with no results. Perhaps at one time he had enjoyed saving lives, but years at the Hospital had drained the once colourful Frenchman of all his life, leaving him utterly grey in both hue and tone.

It was at times like these that Francis lamented what life would've been like had he gone to art school and designed fashion instead. Perhaps he wouldn't have been stuck in this drab and colourless world. Instead, he would've been following his dreams, staying up late into the dead of night working off of the buzz of coffee, booze, and sheer will, just like back in his college days. Instead he would've been fitting dozens of _magnifique_ young men with his various creations, sending them off to the runway to shock and awe.

But alas…it was never meant to be. And Francis' wings were ripped from his back, torn like his dreams into itty bitty pieces.

Still, every day Francis watched the sky.

* * *

**August 23rd, 2009**

**11:48:21 PM EST**

**Rockwell's**

**Manhattan, New York**

Why had he come here again? It seemed he had forgotten.

The musky smell of smoke and lust wafted through the air, riding on the backs of sweet, sweet notes erupting from the piano. Antonio would've been fond of the jazz they played here. Of that he was sure.

_"Fantastico!" He would cry, rolling his tongue with glee. "Dance with me, Francis!"_

_ At one time, he would've. But today the jazz did not resonate so sassily and passionately through the air. Today the notes hung heavier than normal, drooping and coming to a whining halt. He wondered, just to himself, how the little runt was doing._

"Um, a small scotch, c'il vous plait." Francis said to the bartender quietly.

"Right away, sir."

Francis had been a frequenter of this club (if the small, family owned place could be called such) ever since '93. It was much the same ever since he had first stepped into it. Unlike most raunchy, grossly loud dance clubs filled to the brim with barely legal, overly-horny college kids, this place was quieter and more classy. It was the kind of place he came to think, to sit by himself and sketch and wallow without judgement.

"Well, hallo, mein Freund. I never thought I would see you here again." There was something positively devious in his voice. "After all…du gesagt du hasst mich." (1)

Well, there went the quiet. Francis refused to look at the man. "I refuse to speak to such a common whore as you, Monsieur Beilschmidt."

A light chuckle. "Oh? So this is about **that**?"

"That and the fact that that terrible language you are so intent to spout makes me want to wretch." Francis sipped his drink sharply with a frown.

Beilschmidt sat, leaning closer to Francis and earning a displeased 'hmph.' "C'mon, Bonnefoy, let me at least buy you a drink."

No. He couldn't. Because he just **knew**, 'let me buy you a drink' translated to 'let me have you tonight.' And he would not, absolutely **not**, wind up at the will of Gilbert Beilschmidt again.

Or at least, that's what he told himself every time he woke up alone.

* * *

Earlier, The Same Day

**3:10:09 PM EST**

**On the Turnpike**

"Arthur, you jerk, why can't you tell me where we're **going**?" Peter whined.

Arthur, who had only begun to drive about three minutes ago, had already dealt with two minutes and fifty eight seconds of **brutal** whining and general bitchery from Peter, and was just about to put his head through the windshield, push the fucking brat out of the passenger seat, and then run his pathetic ass over. "And why can't you just shut the bloody hell up?"

"Arthurrrrr-"

_ It's illegal to commit homicide. It's illegal to commit homicide. It's illegal to commit homicide. It's illegal to commit homicide!_

Eventually, Peter begun to realize that just repeating his brother's name over and over was not doing anything to get his attention. So, instead, he switched to a completely new kind of mindfuckery. "You know, I'm missing my game for this, so it better be bloody good. I was totally about to start having fun with Repulsion Gel! Yong Soo told me all about it and said it was like, the best. freaking. level. **ever**. And Cave! I'm missing out on Cave **Johnson**! All this time wondering what he was like and I'll never know!"

"…how tragic."

Well, **that**, was certainly not the reaction we, I mean, he had wanted. Come on Peter! You can do better than that!

A change in tactics. "Yong Soo's nice. I think you'd like him. Only he's dating Jun (2) right now. And Jun's okay, don't get me wrong, but like, his Mom is **insane**. His Mom doesn't like that he's dating a boy either, but I think that's because Jun's a totallllll bottom. And that Yong Soo's a perv, but like still, who wants their kid to be a **bottom**? Talk about all that manliness just being flushed right down the toilet! It reminds me of this other boy-"

"**Shut up**!" Arthur finally snapped, stopping far too abruptly and causing Peter's face to come thisclose to making friends with the dashboard. "We're going to Hollister, if that's bloody alright with you!"

Peter quieted, trying to process what was just said (*cough* yelled *cough*). "…Hollister?"

At this, Arthur reddened. "W-well, it's one of the only teen clothing stores I know of…a-and it's not as if we won't see other stores at the mall as well. You didn't bring much with you after all."

Peter didn't respond.

"…Huh?" When Arthur glanced over, he saw that Peter was frowning slightly, looking down at the hands in his lap. "Peter?"

Silence. And then, a mumbled, "…Do I have to?"

Arthur blinked. He couldn't possibly figure out what he might've said to upset the thing. "Well, I mean if you want to be treated like a gentleman, you have to dress like one-"

Peter's eyes shot up.

"-. None of this jerseys and ripped trousers' look. Honestly! Who would want to wear trousers that were **ripped**! A real man would go and fix those trousers!"

"**Arthur**!" Peter interjected.

"Oh, yes, was there something you wanted to say, poppet?"

Peter fumbled with what he was thinking for a moment, then just spoke. "You're taking me…to buy boy's clothes?"

Arthur gave him a funny look as if he did not understand what Peter was getting at. "Well yes…what's that supposed to mean? Do you expect me to buy brassieres and panty hose for my little brother? Now wouldn't that be a sight."

Peter sat and stared for a moment. It was strange to him; Arthur acting as if this is how it has always been, as if he had no idea that Peter was biologically a girl. As if that fact simply didn't…exist.

But at the same time, as strange as it was…it was not entirely…bad. In contrast to reality, this was like sitting on a cloud, watching from afar the nightmare of reality in bliss, as if to them, it was just a funny illusion.

And Peter smiled softly, thinking to himself, _I wish I could stay in this happy dream forever, never to face a nightmare again._


End file.
